


On the Meaning of Names

by Randomquidditchpun



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Depression, Developing Relationship, Dysphoria, Fix-It, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion knows how to fight, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Soft Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomquidditchpun/pseuds/Randomquidditchpun
Summary: "Jaskier is a master of talking himself into and out of situations (and only sometimes needs the assistance of a sword wielding bodyguard). He is a skilled lover and knows his way around all kinds of bedrooms and bodies. In short, it takes a lot to make him feel out of his element.In this instance “a lot” means a pack of snarling wolves that are circling their little camp – while his sword wielding protector is out cold."Jaskier is a bard and a poet. Swords really don't fit his aesthetic. But what will happen when fate forces his hand and what other secrets could be hidden down that path?A series of one-shots that explore the pining of two oblivious idiots while also shedding light on Jaskiers past.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 314





	1. Alfried

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t even know what happened here? I have a rough idea where this story is going to go but mainly I wanted a ‘Jaskier is actually a decent fighter he just hides it very well’ fic and this is what my brain came up with? And now I am attached to the characters and want to know what happens next.  
> But seriously I haven’t written fanfiction in ages and back when I did it wasn’t in English so this is kind of daunting? Please be nice to me!

Jaskier is not a shy man. In general he does not suffer from low self-esteem. Oh, he can play coy if he wants to but he usually doesn‘t. He certainly knows his limitations: He is a highly skilled musician with the lute - this is an irrefutable fact - but he knows his harp play is passable at best and he really never got the hang of playing the flute or other woodwind instruments. He prefers to sing anyway.

He also knows that very dark colours make his complexion look pasty, while white and cream-coloured garments tend to give him a washed out appearance (and they stain too easily during his prolonged adventures out in the wild with a certain Witcher).

He knows that while Geralt tolerates him as a traveling companion, there is no deeper connection between them (no matter how much he longs for it). He doesn't buy the "You are not my friend" stuff though. Witchers definitely _do_ have feelings and anyone who claims the opposite is simply a clueless piece of graveir dung – Geralt included.

There are also some aspects of his past that he would like to keep hidden (He knows that his embroidery was never delicate enough and that he was always too loud and brash for someone of his status. He knows that Franca and Viktoria had been laughing about him whenever he wasn’t in the room while Kasimir and his cousins had mocked him while he was still right there.)

But all of this aside he usually knows what to do. He has basic survival skills after all his time out and about with Geralt. He usually is more than able to earn enough coin for a bed and a warm meal even though the rough times make it harder and harder. He is a formidable story teller and given a few hours and his lute he can play a crowd like one big instrument. He has managed to turn the Butcher of Blaviken into the White Wolf after all. He is a master of talking himself into and out of situations (and only sometimes needs the assistance of a sword wielding bodyguard). He is a skilled lover and knows his way around all kinds of bedrooms and bodies. In short, it takes _a lot_ to make him feel out of his element.

In this instance “ _a lot_ ” means a pack of snarling wolves that are circling their little camp – while his sword wielding protector is out cold due to basilisk venom and a handful of potions he has taken to help with the healing process, before promptly passing out.

That has been a few hours ago. It has been upon Jaskier to get his knight out of his disgustingly blood crusted armor and into his bedroll. Afterwards he has taken care of the fire, mended a tear in the sleeve of his favorite doublet and nervously stared into the dark night. The distant cries and growls of wild beasts have always been mildly disconcerting but they become a lot more menacing once the highly skilled warrior of the group is out of commission.

And now the growling and howling is no longer distant but very _very_ close and fending off hungry wolves wasn’t something that they taught at Oxenfurt. Nervously wringing his hand Jaskier inches closer to the fire and his sleeping companion – who looks painfully vulnerable curled up in his bedroll with his eyes closed. From his experience it shouldn’t take that much longer for the effects of the venom to wear off. But his experience is limited and it might just be a childish hope that Geralt will jump up and safe him just in time. It certainly isn’t something to calculate on while their lives are in danger.

Roach neighs nervously and he would give her an annoyed look – because _yes_ , he is aware that he should be doing something – but he also does not dare to take his gaze off the snarling beasts who are now drawing even closer.

Out of the corner of his eyes he takes in all the supplies at his disposal. His bedroll and pack. His sewing kit (he is not planning on getting close enough to cross-stitch the wolves). Geralts disgusting armor (But is it disgusting enough to deter hungry animals? Probably not. Even though it might give them more to chew on. He shudders.) Geralts swords. Geralt himself (Now would be a fabulous time to rise and shine!) The Witchers potion supplies, haphazardly spread all over the place. Their meager rations (He doubts that he will be able to placate the wolves with their last bits of jerky and stale bread.)

His gaze flits back to the swords leaning against Geralts pack. He shouldn’t even entertain the thought. _He is a bard_. He knows how to read and write and sing and play the lute. He is quite good at turning their boring food supplies into decent enough meals. He knows how to stitch together fabric (and occasionally skin). But he is not a warrior. His last lesson with a sword had taken place decades ago (and even then he had only been allowed there because the sword master had been uncommonly lenient with the youngest of his charges.) And after being shipped off to school there had been no more fooling around with weapons. But since Geralt is still very much asleep and the wolves – oh shit, they are even closer now – since desperate times call for desperate measures he slowly extends his hand and closes his finger around the grip of the steel sword. With a shaky breath he draws the weapon and tries to remember all the things that he learned when he was a child.

And – wow, alright – this might be even more difficult than he anticipated because this is a big sword, a _very heavy_ big sword that is very much adapted to the needs of a certain broad-shouldered Witcher. And he is a bard who tries to leave most of the heavy lifting to big Witchers because they are much better at that than he ever could be. And this really is a horrible idea.

But even though his thoughts are definitely spiralling and his arms are shaking, his legs nonetheless find their way into the fighting stance that Alfried had taught him so many years ago. And as the first wolf lunges into action he can almost hear his grumbly old voice beneath the hissing of the blade and the yipping of the beasts. Now that he thinks about it (not that now is a good moment to think about this, but when has that ever stopped him) the sword master sounds quite a lot like Geralt on one of his more talkative days.

His first few attempts are rather lousy but at least he does not stumble over his own feet (much). The ginormous sword gathers quite a lot of momentum when wielded by someone of his body type. Once in motion it seems to develop a mind of its own and doesn’t react kindly to abrupt changes in direction. Jaskier is not quite sure who is yanked around more, the sword or him. Knowing himself the sword probably looks a lot more graceful at least. The first successful slash at one of the creatures seems to enrage it more than anything else but then he manages to stab deep into the mess of matted fur and flesh and the beast staggers sideways. The movement almost pulls the sword from his fingers but he grits his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and frees the weapon just in time to fend of the next wolf.

He manages to take down three of them before his luck runs out and under different circumstances he would probably celebrate this fact. As things are there are another three beasts still ready to charge at him while his sword arm is pinned by the carcass of one of his slain attackers. He swears and desperately tries to regain his limb but to no avail. With wide eyes he watches as two more wolves creep toward him and he raises his free arm as if it could provide any protection from snarling maws and razor sharp claws ...

... and then he jerks and voices a few choice words of muffled protest when even more dead wolf lands of top of him.

He is not able to witness the rest of the fight due to fur and blood and dirt but once he has freed himself enough to take in the scene, he sees Geralt, steel sword at his side and white hair in wild disarray as he scans their surroundings for more potential threats.

Jaskier snorts and lets his head thumb back against the chilly ground. (A stupid little grin tugs at his lips. Because Geralt is _alright_. He hasn’t been killed by the basilisk and wasn’t torn to shreds by wild wolves. _Success_!) He closes his eyes and tries to fill his lungs with air which is difficult because his ribcage feels crushed and every breath twinges. He knows that his ribs are probably alright but it still feels horrible. He is not prepared for this kind of lifestyle. Sword fighting … _why_? (He usually tries to avoid most physical exertion but he has gotten used to the endless walking at least). Upon opening his eyes he is met with a wary stare from Geralt and decides to voice his rambling thoughts - because that is a much more familiar way of dealing with troubles and he might be able to avoid any more substantial discussions for a while.

‘Just – like – a moment – earlier’, he wheezes out while still pushing at the dead wolf on top of him. ‘Would it have killed you to wake up just a tad earlier?’ He swallows and shakes his head. ‘I mean. I’m glad. That you woke up at all, that is. We are alive and I still have all of my lovely face … hurray. But your timing … this was really quite a close call. Too close if you ask me – well, you barely ever ask for my opinion but considering that I’m pinned beneath two dead wolves right now, you could maybe consider my opinion just this one time.’ No matter how hard he tries to push the weight off himself, the carcasses do not move an inch. ‘A little help … _please_!’ He tries his best wide eyed, pleading face and Geralt huffs but comes over and frees him with barely any effort.

Jaskier groans and carefully props himself against a nearby boulder, while poking at his tender ribs and his arm, which still feels a little numb.

‘Are you alright?’ Geralt is still staring down at him and Jaskier sighs.

‘Yes, just a bit sore. Alright, very sore. But also still whole. Which I am very thankful for.’ He squints up at the Witcher while the darkness around them slowly recedes. So he was up the entire night. Wonderful. Geralt huffs again, his sharp gaze observes the scenery around them one last time before he sits down opposite Jaskier.

‘How?’

‘W-what?’ He suddenly feels a little bit cornered and that’s a bit unfair after he did like half of the work of saving both their lives.

The Witcher growls and makes a sweeping gesture encompassing the dead beasts that litter their camp and his amber eyes narrow.

‘Well …’ Jaskier is still prodding his smarting arm. ‘I used a sword. Long, metal thing. Sharp edges, pointy tip. Might have come up during your Witcher training. Has the tendency to poke and cut things if you swing around with it.’ His gaze lands on the sword that now lies in the dirt next to his scowling companion and he adds apologetically, ‘I know it’s yours and you don’t like if I touch your things but it was kind of the only option left? And it won’t happen again, I promise. This thing is bloody heavy Geralt, I don’t even know whether you are still aware of that because you are like … muscles all the way through, but you can be sure that I won’t be going anywhere near it.’ He sincerely hopes that this will shut down most of the scolding but Geralt does not look mollified at all.

‘ _You_ know how to _fight_! Why did you never tell me? You usually tell me everything, whether I want to hear it or not!’

And wow, he must be really upset. Those were a lot of words coming from someone who can order a room, two warm meals, ale and a bath just with “ _hmmms_ ”, glowering and nodding. ‘Now come on. I lifted the sword and I managed to poke some of the attackers while missing both you and me. And while I am very proud of this, I think it might be taking things a bit far to say that I can actually fight.’

Another dissatisfied grumble. ‘We would be both dead if that were true.’

Jaskiers throws up his hands and – ouch … regrets it but ploughs on. ‘That’s what you assume because you see a few dead wolves lying around. But if I remember correctly you weren’t even awake for my portion of the “fight”. By the way, if you were awake and just wanted to see what would happen, then fuck you, but I don’t think that is the case.’

‘So show me then.’ And Geralt is back on his feet and he is grabbing Jaskiers doublet, which is absolutely filthy now by the way, and is lifting him to his feet. Before he knows what is happening, the grip of another weapon is forced into his cold fingers and he yelps. At least it is not the far too heavy sword but a long dagger (were did this come from?) and he weighs it in his hand before his gaze wanders to the Witcher who – oh damn – has drawn the darn steel sword and looks at him expectantly.

‘No Geralt …’ Suddenly the sword is coming down and he has to step out of the way and his hand with the dagger comes up almost on instinct to at least offer some protection. ‘ _Geralt no_ ’, he tries with a firmer tone. ‘I haven’t slept all night because you – hey – because you needed your beauty sleep after that basilisk ...’, he has to duck because the sword comes swinging in his direction from the side and while the movements are slow and deliberate he would really prefer for them to just go to sleep. ‘Come on. My whole body hurts. My arm hurts. I won’t be able to play anything that requires more complex strumming patterns on the lute for days. This is how I earn my coin. Geralt!’ He yanks up the dagger to block the blade that is coming done at his head now. With a growl he sidesteps again and swings the dagger around with all his might to get the sword out of his face. His opponent grins which is another sure sign that he must have lost his mind.

‘This is not the stance of someone who has never held a sword before’, he assesses, before Jaskier has to block another attack that targets his side. He grimaces.

‘Yes, right. You won. I had some basic training. Not much. I was never any good at it and I was a kid back then, alright? Can we stop this act now?’ He dodges another attack and then takes a few steps back while throwing the dagger to the side. The Witcher almost pouts. Maybe after receiving one or two stab wounds he will be allowed to finally go to sleep. And to change into something less constricting. His shoulders and back are really killing him right now.

Geralt stare at him with the same piercing stare before he reluctantly lowers the sword and comes to his side. ‘You are hurting.’

‘Told you so’, he mutters before he retreats to his pack and slumps on his bedroll.

‘I’ve seen people with far worse posture and abilities’, Geralt grumbles before making his way to his own stuff, where he slowly starts to reorganize his potions. ‘Who taught you to fight?’

Jaskier glowers at him while he draws a thin blankets around himself. ‘There was this sword master. Ancient fellow. He coordinated the weapons training back at home. He was very kind and patient with me. I doubt that he is still alive.’ His numb fingers fight with the laces of his garments but once he gets them to loosen up he takes a long and relieved breath before slumping even further. ‘He was called Alfried. He taught me everything I know even though it might not be much.’

‘Alfred, as in -’

‘Alfried’, he corrects almost embarrassed. ‘And you don’t have to sugarcoat it, Geralt. Not for me. Not that you ever bothered before. I know that I am not good at it. The others never got tired of telling me so. And I’m fine with that. My talents lie somewhere else. I know that now.’ His fingers wander to the lute that has blessedly remained undamaged but he decides against it. His arm and shoulders are to sore for this. His scowl deepens.

Geralt hmmms. This is much more like him. But his expression is also awfully pensive. ‘Once we reach the next big city we will get you a proper sword. One that is not too heavy for you and your musician hands.’

This is something that he would usually counter with indignation and snide remarks but he is still too hung up with the first part of that statement. ‘A sword? Why?’

The Witcher answers his bewilderment with an unfazed expression. ‘Because it would do you good if you were able to defend yourself. And you will be able’, he gives him a pointed glare. ‘With a little more training. No matter what some idiots thought about your capabilities when you were still a kid.’

Jaskier rolls his eyes even though these might just be the kindest words that he has ever received from Geralt. He drops down and burrows in his bedroll, his back to the Witcher. ‘Do I have to?’

‘These are hard times, things are not going to get easier.’

He stares down at his fingers and grits his teeth against the emotions that he had very neatly burrowed in the back of his mind ages ago. ‘Geralt, I don’t really think that fighting is for me.’

‘Hmmhm’, says Geralt.

‘People will not care whether you like to fight or not before they attack you’, grumbles Alfried in the back of his head. Wonderful, now he has two grumbly travelling companions. He reluctantly rolls around to face Geralt who is looking thoughtful again.

‘I don’t really think that this is your opinion. It sounds more like something that you have been told one too many times when you were young’, with that he rises. ‘Try to get a few hours of sleep. I will take care of the mess and wake you once it is time to carry on.’

He walks over to Roach and Jaskier closes his eyes. He really wants to dissect what just happened because it feels really significant. But he is also very very tired and he is still hurting all over. And he is quite confident that there soon will be long hours of traveling with a much quieter Geralt during which he will be able to ponder on the events further. And until then he will sleep and hope that the fight does not drag up too many unpleasant memories. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just kind of want to explore the story of this version of Jaskier a bit more and I definitely want to deal with the ep 6 heartbreak and explore his relationship with Ciri and Yennefer so this is kind of the direction that I am going to take? I’ll just tag whatever comes up along the way? Is this how AO3 works?  
> Also please bind responsibly, take regular breaks, don't exercise and don’t fight off more than two wolves at a time while binding. You know the drill.


	2. Julis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CN:** There is an off-hand comment that kind of triggers Jaskiers Dysphoria here. Also they discuss fertility for a bit.  
> Other than that there is a little bit more sword fighting and Yennefer is added to the mix to intensify the overall pining. Enjoy!

‘Again!’

The problem with Geralt is that he takes stuff too damn serious.

‘Could we maybe take a break? What – _ouch_ – don’t look at me like that, we’ve been going for hours now. I am just a scrawny human, I need breaks you know?’

Any other person would go and spend their newly earned coin on something nice. Especially if it had been earned slaying a basilisk of all things. A nice new pair of boots, a warm coat, even a new blanket for Roach would have surely been greatly appreciated. Instead all they did end up with was another piece of sharp, scary metal. A sword for Jaskier, who has been quite vocal about _not needing it_.

‘Again, try to move your feet more.’

But maybe this is Geralts idea of _something nice._ A new hobby of sorts. Drawing his own (heavy and even scarier) sword and attacking Jaskier again and again and _again_ (Gods, he hates this word).

He has to admit that after a fortnight of regular albeit unasked-for training sessions - with a sword that actually fits his proportions - things already go a lot smoother. The basic stances and movements from his childhood no longer need to be dragged up from the very back of his memory and he has definitely built up some endurance even though it doesn't really compare to the Witchers stamina. And while he does not appreciate ending every other day with fresh bruises and aching arms he kind of sees the benefit of being a passable swordsman. Naturally he would rather eat his and both of Geralts swords before he would ever admit these kind of thoughts to the Witcher himself. He has an image to maintain after all.

‘You are not even paying attention right now, Jaskier. _Your feet_!’ To prove his point the Witcher swirls around him in one fluid motion and kicks his legs out from underneath him. All the air leaves his lungs upon the impact but at least he has figured out by now how to keep his head off the ground (say nine out of ten times). He scowls up at Geralt for a moment before he remembers his last few lessons and scrambles for his sword that has landed in the dirt next to him to uphold a semblance of an intact defense. Geralt rolls his eyes but lowers his own sword and offers him a hand. Jaskier considers the offer for approximately the fraction of a second before his sword lands back on the ground with a clatter and he closes his eyes with a groan.

‘Jaskier’, the Witcher sighs.

‘No. _No_! I asked for a break, I am taking a break. Now. My arms already feel like they have turned into goo and I still have to work on this ballad about your basilisk hunt tonight!’

‘I mean, you don’t have to ...’

‘You, Geralt of Rivia, are an arse!’ His wild gestures would probably be a lot more impressive if he weren’t still lying on the ground. ‘This is my profession that you are talking about, I might even call it my vocation! And might I remind you that my songs both helped to secure us enough money to survive and managed to significantly alter your reputation at least in some parts of the continent? How would you feel if I kept you away from your monster slaying by … I don’t know … forcing you to play the lute and dance all day long?’

That earns him a short huff of laughter from the Witcher (which does not fill him with a fuzzy warm feeling every time he hears it, not at all). ‘You wouldn’t let me touch your instrument even if your live depended on it’, he retorts but relents and strolls over to Roach who is watching their training from a save distance. Jaskier only envies her a little bit.

‘You oaf would probably find at least ten ways to destroy my poor lute just by looking at it.’ He glances over to Geralt and his horse. Another side effect of their training is that the sessions leave the Witcher almost talkative – at least by Geralt standards. And while he certainly did not expect it, it surely is a welcome development (even though it doesn’t really help with his hopeless crush on the Witcher, but what else is new?).

‘Enjoy your break while it lasts, bard. Before sunset I want to go over your movements again, you need to improve your footwork. We can do it without the sword for now - to spare your poor arms.’ He smirks and Jaskier scoffs.

‘Don’t use this word. I _hate_ this word!’

‘What? Footwork?’

‘ _Again_ ’, he sighs heavenwards. ‘I am going to end up with nightmares that solely consist of you saying “ _Again_ ”.’ He doesn’t get an answer but he knows that Geralt is smiling (or trying very hard not to smile). And there is the warm feeling again -

‘Well, isn’t this cozy?’

\- aaand it’s gone. Replaced by cold dread as he scrambles to his feet just to stare at Yennefer who just casually appeared between Geralt and him. Bloody sorceresses. It could have been such a nice afternoon.

‘Yennefer, to what do we owe the pleasure?’, Geralt asks mildly. He doesn’t even look startled while Jaskiers heart is still beating wildly in his chest. But to him this probably is a pleasant surprise instead of the worst fucking thing that could have possibly happened.

‘Speak for yourself’, he mutters while bending down to retrieve his sword from the ground.

‘Jaskier, so nice to see you.’ Her gaze sweeps over his dirty undershirt and dusty trousers. ‘It seems that you let yourself go a bit.’

He blushes but refuses the impulse to dust of his clothes. They are a lost cause anyway. After the fight with the wolf pack he quickly gave up on this specific outfit and appointed it “training gear” to spare his remaining clothes. ‘It is a fashion statement’, he answers grimly. ‘Not that _you_ would know anything about that.’

‘If you say so’, she retorts unfazed and shifts her focus back to the Witcher.

‘What can I do for you, Yen?’, he asks softly - and okay, so they are using nicknames now? The last time Jaskier had tried to give Geralt a nickname he almost lost his head. He definitely is not bitter about that. Scowling he retreats to the side and sits down on a log next to his pack.

‘Can’t I just come by and visit the Witcher that I am _magically bound to_?’, she asks mockingly and Geralt huffs but Jaskier can see him grinning … and no, there is no warm fuzzy feeling now … just a lot of _other feelings_.

‘You can, but you wouldn’t.’ The Witcher crosses his arms and stares at the sorceress. ‘What do you need?’

She sighs but cuts to the point. ‘I have a contract. I don’t think it would be wise to attempt it on my own. The reward is generous and I would be willing to share it.’

‘Hmmm?’ Geralt is feigning disinterest but the sinking feeling in his gut tells Jaskier that he would be foolish not to take the offer. Things have been slow after the basilisk and they just spent an unjustifiable amount of money on a sword for the bard.

‘We still don’t have all the information but we suspect that some sort of cult is forming somewhere south of Wyzima. They are summoning demons and things are starting to get out of hand. We have a forest that is full of them by now and at least a handful of people in town that we suspect to be possessed.’

‘Hmmm.’ That is almost as good as a yes. Jaskier knows it and grits his teeth. Yennefer – _Yen_ – knows it and gives Geralt a cool grin.

‘So, how do you feel about a collaboration?’

‘Wyzima you say … shouldn’t take us too long to get there.’

The sorceress sighs audibly. ‘You know, there is this thing called magic and I am quite good at it.’

‘ _No portals_.’

She raises her hands reassuringly. ‘Alright. I guess, we can use the time traveling to make plans.’

Jaskier is not sure whether he is more glad about the fact that the Witcher won’t be whisked away by Yennefer through a portal or more dejected about the prospect of traveling with the witch for several days. Maybe even weeks. His scowl deepens.

‘We can start tomorrow’, Geralt determines and gestures to their humble camp. ‘Make yourself at home!’

She gives him a long stare. ‘I will try my best.’

Jaskier glares at his dirty boots. Maybe he can postpone the ballad about the basilisk for a few days and instead start on something mean and passive aggressive? It could start misleadingly sweet and quiet and then with a change of harmony and a quickened pace -

‘Jaskier!’ He startles and stares right up at Geralt. The Witcher raises an eyebrow. ‘Come on!’

‘What?’

‘I think your break was long enough now. Your footwork is still poor. Up you get!’

He stares up at the Witcher. ‘What, now?’ And with a short glance at Yennefer and a grimace he adds, ‘But we have a guest!’

‘Oh don’t mind me’, she argues with a wide smirk. ‘I don’t even know what is going to happen but I am sure it is going to be entertaining.’

‘So?’

Jaskier wants to murder both of them. He feels cornered and knows that he is the weakest of the three of them – damn he is probably even more vulnerable than Roach, but he still wants to murder them. But instead of embarrassing himself even further he rises with a grunt and draws his sword. At Geralts unasked question he just shrugs. ‘We might as well do it properly. I don’t think I am going to get a lot of composing done anyway tonight.’

And so Geralt returns after retrieving his own sword and they are back at it _again_.

‘Keep your gaze on me but move your feet to match your upper body movements’, he instructs while they begin to circle each other. ‘That way if I attack you can react more swiftly.’

He tries. He really does. There is much less snarking and much more gritting his teeth, but he is also tired and being observed by Yennefer is very unnerving. And so while he manages to parry several attacks he still ends up on the ground most of time.

‘Keep your center low and don’t overbalance’, Geralt says for what must be the third or fourth time and peers down at where Jaskier is splayed on the ground. ‘Come on. _Once more_.’ He glares up at him and sits up. Everything hurts. He feels the development of a sizeable bruise at his side and his backside has been landed on one too many times.

‘I didn’t know that you are training your pet now’, Yennefer coos and Jaskiers glare intensifies. She gives him an innocent smile. ‘What? I just didn’t know you had it in yourself, Jaskier. Always thought your were more a man of frilly dresses than of swords.’

The words are more innocent than her smile and he knows that under different circumstances it would be easy to shake them off but he has been on edge since the sorceress has appeared in their middle. And enough is enough. He leaves his sword behind and marches off without another word, away from the camp.

He hears how Geralt growls Yennefers name but he does not stay to see what happens next. He is not stupid enough to wander off too far but he goes as far as he dares before he sits down in the high grass and glumly stares into the darkness of the woods (It shouldn’t upset him, he has always been flamboyant but it is not really in his power to decide what does or does not upset him. Things would be so _much easier_ if it worked like that).

The sun is already disappearing between the trees when he hears footfalls in the grass behind him. He does not need the Witchers keen hearing to determine that they must belong to Yennefer. He steels himself for more harsh words but they never come.

‘Jaskier. I’m sorry. I didn’t know and I wouldn’t have said it if I had known.’

He scoffs and turns around, but avoids her inquisitive eyes. ‘What? You want me to believe that you really didn’t know?’

She shrugs and to his surprise crouches down close by. ‘To be honest? It just never occurred to me.’

‘Hmm ...’ He is spending too much time with Geralt. Maybe a few days in Wyzima while Yennefer and the Witcher hunt their demons will do him some good. He continues to stare into the dark forest. ‘ _How_?’ she asks eventually, her gaze still piercing but a little gentler.

‘I bribed a witch when I was still in school’, he recounts with a shrug. ‘I was still relatively young and the girls around me started … you know.’ She raises an eyebrow but does not interrupt. ‘There was this witch in town and I went to her for advice. She was hesitant at first but I’m usually pretty good at talking people into things.’

‘Who would’ve known’, she drawls.

‘Anyway, she made the potions for me in exchange for all kind of supplies that I stole for her from the school stocks. It actually went well for several years before I got caught and expelled for the theft. I never went back home afterwards. At first I feared that without the potions my body would finally catch up with me but it never did.’

She sighs and he suddenly remembers that she lost her fertility as well – and fought quite fiercely in hope of regaining it. Would she think him foolish for giving it away like that? But Yennefer merely shrugs. ‘I can only guess what concoction she gave you, but I reckon a year of taking the potion would have been enough for this to happen. At most.’

‘Pity! I could have gotten myself expelled much sooner from this hell hole had I known this.’ They share a moment of silence.

‘Do you ever regret it?’, she finally asks.

‘Never’, he answers earnestly and she hums. ‘I don’t think that it is comparable. I merely got rid of something that I never really wanted anyways. It was my choice and I took it.’ He stares at her almost defiantly but she does not disagree.

‘I guess your witch must have done a decent job or else you would have noticed adverse side effects by now. But should anything else ever come up ...’ She shrugs. ‘You can come to me for help. I am not a healer, but I still know enough to get by most of the time. And if not I know some people.’ He stares at her, mouth slightly agape but she does not add anything to that offer and rises to her feet in one fluid motion. ‘Come on let’s get back to the fire before you freeze to death. Geralt is already in a foul mood. Let’s not make it worse.’

He rolls his eyes but bounces to his feet with a groan. The days training has definitely caught up with him now. ‘ _Aw_ , you think he would be sad if I found a cold and untimely death? I always knew he _cared!’_

‘Well you follow him around like a lap dog … or a pet bird. He is bound to get attached over time.’

‘And you would know everything about getting attached to Geralt, wouldn’t you’, he quips back and she throws a withering glare his way.

Back by the fire the Witcher is almost done preparing their dinner and they sit in companiable silence for a while. The only thing to be heard is the crackling of the flames and the wilderness around them. In short, it is unbearable and something needs to be done about it, now.

So Jaskier reaches across his things to retrieve his lute and begins to strum random chords between mouthfuls. Geralt gives him an annoyed look but Yennefer does not even comment.

‘Does your witch have a name?’, she asks suddenly when they are almost done. ‘Maybe she is someone that I am familiar with.’

He looks up at her in surprise. He expected them to leave all pleasantries behind once they were back at the camp. ‘Err … she told me to call her Julis. Maybe it was short for something. Julisanne? Julisante?’ It doesn’t seem to ring a bell with Yennefer so he continues. ‘She was quite tall with dark complexion and black curls. She always seemed pretty young but I know that looks can be deceiving with mages. Oh and she had a penchant for Temerian music and lilies. The flowers were always all over her shop. No idea where she got them from in such quantities.’

‘You seem to know her quite well’, she remarks and he shrugs.

‘I mean, we spent a lot of time around each other, I guess. And for a long time she was the only person that I confided in. She was kind and understanding when a lot of other people wouldn’t have been. I don’t even know what has become of her ...’ He trails off.

‘I’m sure she is alright. Based on her potion work she seems competent enough. She will know how to lay low and defend herself.’

He doesn’t know whether Geralt has any idea what they are talking about, but maybe the Witcher just enjoys the fact that Jaskier for once has someone else to talk to. His fingers pick a melody that reminds him of his childhood in Lettenhove and he lets out a sigh while staring into the dancing flames.

‘I once got this really frilly dress for some silly festivity.’ He doesn’t know what makes him recount the tale but he continues, because he wants to share the story. ‘Viktoria had grown out of it and it truly was a monstrosity of silk and ruffles in this very awkward pale green shade that made me look as pale as a corpse.’ He grimaces. ‘It took me one afternoon to cut the hideous thing up. I attempted to make my own doublet out of it, even though there was little that I could do about the color.’

Yennefer laughs at that and he can see Geralts grin from the corner of his eye.

‘Was it any good, the doublet?’, the sorceress asks.

‘It was an abomination’, he declares proudly. ‘My needlework has always been atrocious. But in the end at least I didn’t have to wear the dress so it was definitely worth it.’

And maybe, just maybe, he can endure the presence of the sorceress for a few weeks, even though the warm fuzzy feeling does not fully return as long as she is around. It doesn't mean that they are friends now but their banter becomes a lot more tolerable. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Post-Dragon hunt heartbreak!


	3. Buttercup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CN:** This chapter deals with depression and to an extent with alcohol abuse so be mindful of that.
> 
> As promised this chapter deals with the aftermath of the dragon hunt. Poor Jaskier. Shame on you Geralt. And Yennefer gets involved again because we would be lost without her.

'If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take _you_ off my hands!‘

The thing about Geralt is … _was,_ that he could be quite an arse sometimes. And Jaskier was used to that. He had learned to deal with that. They had been friends for years. But this … _this_ wasn‘t just him being grumpy or inconsiderate or an emotionally constipated brute. And Jaskier had to ask himself whether he might have read things wrong between the two of them.

He had always known that their companionship was strictly platonic. And he had been fine with that. He had learned to treasure their journey and adventures as a symbol of their year long friendship. And now … now he had to ask himself whether he should have listened a little closer whenever the Witcher had insisted (again and again and _again_ ) that they were not _actually_ friends. Because friends – friends didn’t just blame each other for all the bad things that happened in their life, right? Friends didn’t just shout at each other because one of them had been dumped by their mean Witch girlfriend? And really, Jaskier was woefully short on experience when it came to true friendship but he knew that a friend wouldn’t have just let him walk away. A friend would have at least caught up with him somewhere along the way down the bloody montain. _Ergo_ …

He did not actually ask the others for their recount of the story. He stopped just long enough to gather his bag, his lute and – after a short moment of hesitation – his sword. He didn’t know what he would have achieved by leaving it there. It had been bought by Geralts coin but the Witcher would have little use for the shorter weapon and in the end … Jaskier was pretty sure that he would probably not even miss the additional weight. He was also painfully aware that without his frie- _companion_ he should be grateful for all the protection that he had left (maybe this had been Geralts motivator for the sword practice all along. Maybe it would have left him with a guilty conscience to send a completely defenceless bard away, but now that he could wield a sword the Witcher was free to continue his journey alone and in blessed silence).

The journey down the mountain took him until sunset and there were a few occasions during which he had almost lost his footing due to the dwindling light and the rough ground, but he made it to the bottom in one piece (he also didn’t dare to rest his sore feet because he really didn’t want to see the Witcher again right now - or worse, see him walk _right past him_ on his way down).

So he only allowed himself some respite once he reached Roach and the other horses. And maybe he did have a very teary breakdown at the sight of the mare and cried all over her fur when her big head bumped against his side in an almost concerned gesture. He told her to take care of herself and of Geralt and – after more tears – left her behind as well.

That night at the inn he got spectacularly drunk in an award-worthy short amount of time before crashing for a too short night of sleep. He hadn’t touched his lute since he left the mountain behind.

The sun rays of the morning sun reached him far too early but he left the village almost immediately just in case Geralt would be around. _He wasn’t_. (Maybe he was still sulking up there on the mountain. Maybe he had taken the chance to avoid any further human interaction by sleeping out in the wild now that there was no whiny bard by his side pestering him to go to an inn instead).

And in the end it wasn't even that difficult to avoid any further contact with the Witcher. It was astonishingly similar to his traveling habits before the blasted dragon hunt, really. He would aimlessly wander around, earn just enough coin to stay afloat and every now and then ask a farmer or an inn keeper whether there had been any problems with monsters recently. And if the answer was yes he would do his best to get as far away as possible. If he thought about it, it was rather worrying that there had been times when he would have run right at the danger in the hopes of accidentally stumbling upon Geralt on his way there.

It wasn’t as easy as it once had been to earn enough money for board and lodging. He wasn’t too well informed on the political situation but tensions were running high and people became much more hesitant to part with their coin. Something was brewing on the horizon.

He stayed in Oxenfurt for a few month and earning money had been easier there but he just wasn’t so keen on the city life anymore. It wasn’t exactly that he missed the wilderness with all its dangers, unseasoned food and fickle weather … but the city and all its people made him feel on edge all the time.

An added problem was that his well of creativity had pretty much run dry. He hadn’t thought that that would be even possible. Once he was able to construct and compose one or two songs in the span of less than a week without any problem. Even heartbreak and tragedy usually made for a good song afterwards. Now he didn’t write any new pieces in almost a year. And while he didn’t stop playing his crowd-pleasers (he had to survive somehow), all the ballads and stories about the Witcher now left him with a hollow feeling in his middle. He told himself that just because Geralt had broken his heart that didn’t mean that he deserved the atrocious treatment that he received from so many small-minded idiots all over the continent. He reasoned that this were the songs that brought him the most money even on especially bad evenings in the poorest of settlements (also while he preferred his more melancholic ballads now, those just weren’t what hard working grim farmers and craftsman needed to hear right now).

Overall his situation was far from ideal - but in his opinion he was keeping it together pretty well, all things considered. Still, he really needed to deal with this writers block and what better way to do so than by finding some new purpose.

It had been a while since he last visited Cintra but he had been there quite a few times since that faithful night that had brought Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon and Geralt of Rivia together. The first time he had been there for the festivities celebrating the Princesses second birthday. It hadn’t been his intention at first but it became sort of a tradition to start traveling south once spring came around. He hadn’t gone every year, he was a busy man after all (and often had traveled with a very unpredictable companion). But if he had had any chance of making it in time he usually would have tried (the previous year he had been busy climbing a mountain at that time of the year).

Now though he couldn’t think of any better way to get into a better mood and leave the dark clouds behind. Maybe he would even get some much needed inspiration out of the visit. The princess was such a delightful young lady, full of energy and curiosity. He was sure that she wouldn’t remember his name and face since he was just one of many musicians and entertainers that would attend the festivities but it was always a time of inspiration and merriment for him.

* * *

  
And this is how he awakes in Brugge one morning in late spring to the sound of joyously chirping birds. He has spent the night in a decent enough inn, laying in a decent enough bed in the company of a very delightful lady with chestnut coloured skin and the most beautiful big eyes. She – _Amara_ – has truly been deserving of poems and hymns of praise. Maybe he would try and write something about her later.

Now her side of the bed is empty and cold while he stares out of the window. The weather is perfect for the road ahead. He still has a few more exhausting days on the road ahead of himself. That or he could see whether there was anyone with a horse and some space to spare on their cart traveling in the same direction. It would probably cost him the last of his coin though, so traveling by foot would be the more sensible thing to do.

And while the fog of the last few months has lifted somewhat, he knows that the melancholy is still there, hiding in the corners. He is walking a tightrope with the potential of plunging into utter desolation at any given time, he knows that. That is why he has responded to Amaras charming smile last evening after his performance. That is why he is here on his way to Cintra and why he is determined to make it in time for the birthday celebrations.

Sighing he stretches his arms before beginning the tedious process of lacing himself back up in his undershirts and doublet. It is still early in the morning but the street outside is already bustling with people and horses. He thinks back to the night before and smiles while packing up his clothes and lute. There was a spark of inspiration in the intimacy of their act. A verse or two came to his mind yesterday and he tries to remember them while he works. There has been the mention of _gentle sunshine_ and the _smell of spring air_ but no matter how hard he tries he cannot remember the exact wording. He even thinks of a rudimentary motif that might ripe into an actual melody. Maybe – if he is lucky – he will catch a last glimpse of the lovely seamstress before he leaves the city and the words will come back to him.

But first – breakfast. It would do him no good to keel over on the side of the road so close to his destination. With that thought he leaves his belongings on the bed and descends the narrow staircase down to the main room. There are only a few locals around and so he is free to pick a table by the window to eat his modest breakfast and prepare himself for the road ahead.

He hums the motif while he stirs the porridge. Outside the people pause to listen to a rumpled looking barker while Jaskier starts to spoon the bland oatmeal into his mouth. It’s not great but it will be filling enough to fuel him throughout the day. And it’s not even the worst porridge he has ever had – he went to a temple school after all (and he traveled with a Witcher whose enhanced senses did not make him a better cook, much to Jaskiers dismay). He shudders and concentrates on Amaras melody instead.

The door to the inn opens and a small boy – six or seven years at most – makes his way inside, almost stumbling over his own feet. He ducks behind the counter and vanishes in the kitchen and he does so with such casualness that Jaskier can only assume that he isn’t a thief. Some of the other guest chuckle but the few locals that are around at this time of the day don’t even bat an eye.

Only a few moments later the inn keeper – a stocky middle-aged women with curly blond hair exits the kitchen and without another word leaves the room to join the growing crowd that surrounds the barker outside. The boy – probably her son – glances around the counter with wide eyes.

‘What got your mother so agitated, Tomek?’, asks one of the locals with a half grin.

The boy shrinks back into the shadows and the man laughs. But a moment later a thin little voice wavers from behind the old wood. ‘It’s the barker. He is talking about the war. He is saying that Nilfgaard has taken Cintra.’ Silence fills the room all at once and several heads turn around. Jaskiers stops with the spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘He says that Cintra is burning. Has been burning all night long-’

Their is a small moment of complete silence before several chairs scrape over the scratchy floor boards and the group of people outside grows. Jaskier remains frozen in his lovely little spot by the window. Amaras melody has died on his lips. _Surely it cannot be true_? He has seen Queen Calanthe in all her horrible glory. Even thinking about her possible defeat seems ludicrous. But now that he pays closer attention he can see the fear in the eyes of the assembled people outside. He sees how they gasp and grip their children tighter. Some have tears running down their cheeks. The faces of people who live in a kingdom so incredibly small that they will never even stand a chance against an army that was able burn down Cintra (and everyone in it).

Walking up the stairs to get his stuff feels weirdly sluggish - like moving under water. He leaves the rest of his breakfast behind and his feet carry him onto the road back north before he fully realizes what is happening. He is no longer traveling alone. Suddenly the road is alive with people … merchants with their carts and families scrambling to get away from their fallen neighbours. He sees the dread in their faces, the confusion in the childrens faces. And he expects for the reality to catch up with him any moment now. But instead the hollowness prevails.

A warm wind brushes a few strands of hair into his face and this is when he smells it for the first time. The smell of burning ashes. He knows that it cannot be real, not even Geralt would be able to smell a fire over this distance. But it feels so real. And he thinks of the little princess that he has barely known and wishes that he could cry for her as he stumbles further north.

* * *

The following weeks bleed into each other, but he barely remembers a thing.

_He does not sing._

He tries once but the words just won’t come out and it feels like he is choking on Cintras ashes every time he takes a shaky breath. He does not try again and mostly lives outside instead, buying only the barest minimum of food. He knows how to set up traps and how to identify poisonous plants. Moreover he finds that he is just never really hungry anymore these days. And while deep down he knows that this can’t be a good sign it also spares his purse (that hasn’t been very full to begin with).

_He wishes for rain._

It would make his life even more miserable because he cannot afford to find shelter in an inn but maybe it would finally wash away the smell of burning wood and flesh that still permeates the air wherever he goes. Maybe it would finally extinguish the burning city in the south so that Jaskier can find some peace.

_Anxiety keeps him up all night._

It is constantly bubbling under his skin and whenever he expects it the least it boils over and constricts his chest tighter than any garment ever could until he is sure that it must be a curse or a demon taking possession of him (it is also the only emotion that is able to penetrate the nothingness in his chest and mind).

Jaskier is not doing well and he knows it. He has traveled south to escape the darkness that threatened to swallow him and inadvertently jumped straight into the abyss. When the anxiety and the stench of burning flames and hopelessness get so strong, that his hand shake too hard to set up a camp and his stomach refuses to keep any food done, he goes and drowns his sorrows in so much cheap alcohol that it would make even a Witcher tipsy.

It hasn‘t even been two months since the morning in Brugge but he is a wreck. A wreck that is currently planning to spend his last money in the sleazy tavern of a shabby village not far from Wyzima. It is barely noon and there are only few people around but he is not looking for company (and isn’t it ironic, that he is just _here to drink alone_?) It will probably cost his last coin. The money that he has been saving so painstakingly because he just cannot muster the strength to earn any more. But he also can’t stay outside any longer because the air feels so thick with smoke that he fears to suffocate. The barmaid gives him a wary look but doesn’t say anything and he doubts that he is the worst that she has ever seen.

He doesn’t know how he is supposed to continue once the last coin has changed hands. He should make a plan but his mind is blank – has been completely blank since Brugge (he knows that his last option would be to sell the lute but he does not dare to even think about that while he is still relatively sober).

The numbness and gentle buzz that he is looking for sets in quite early today. That could probably be ascribed to the lack of solid food in his diet recently. He pours himself his fourth drink when the door to the tavern opens again. The few patrons that are around at this time of the day fall silent and the whole atmosphere of the place changes so drastically that for a short hysterical moment he fully expects Geralt of Rivia to enter the tavern. The person that actually walks through the door is a lot slimmer and smaller than the Witcher – _but not less unwelcome._

Yennefer of Vengerberg is surrounded by the same air of superiority that has always accompanied her but even she looks a little bit tired and her cloak is a lot plainer than anything that he has ever seen the Witch in, a far cry from her attire at the dragon hunt. Jaskier grits his teeth. _There goes his peace_. He can empathize with Geralt more and more and despises it – _deeply_.

He also despises the idea of ever talking to Yennefer again, so he slinks back into his corner and tries his best to become one with the wall behind him while debating whether it was a good or a very stupid idea to seek cover under his table. Subtlety has never been one of his strengths - even less so after he has had a few drinks.

The Witch walks straight to the bar and for a moment he actually hopes that she will be busy long enough for him to slip out unseen. But no such luck. After a few words to the barmaid she turns around to observe the room – and her gaze settles on him immediately. _Shit_. He has to leave now! He casts a last mournful glance at his unfinished drink and staggers to his feet. Before he can move any further a hand settles on his shoulder, pushes him back into his seat and the Witch sits down across the table.

‘Jaskier, _sit_!’, she sounds like she is talking to an unruly puppy instead of a bard and he scowls up at her.

‘Well look at what the dog dragged in ...’, he slurs spitefully. His voice feels rusty and it is only now that he realises that he has barely spoken more than a few words in the last few weeks. Even his drinks could be ordered with only a few words and grunts. He really is turning into Geralt. He wouldn’t even be surprised to find a few new grey hairs on his head after everything that has happened. He swallows another mouthful of the burning spirit in his tankard while Yennefer only lifts one thin eyebrow.

‘I‘m pretty sure that it is supposed to be a _cat_ in that saying, but I didn't graduate from Oxenfurt so I could be wrong’, she stares at him critically. ‘You look horrible, if you don‘t mind me saying so.’

‘Talk about the pot …’, he trails off and decides that maybe she is right and he should leave the idioms to a more sober Jaskier in the future. ‘You know the one with the black kettle.’

She snorts looking even more pissed off. ‘I don‘t think that my state quite compares to yours’, she drawls while taking in his “state” and he bristles. Yes, his hair is longer and his clothes aren’t nearly as well maintained as they once would have been but it cannot be _that bad._

‘You just voluntarily entered this …‘, he makes a grand gesture, only narrowly missing her face – _oops_ , ‘This establishment. You can‘t be that much better off, Yennefer.’

‘Fair.’ She looks around and crinkles her nose but still orders wine when the bar maid comes over to their table.

‘Bad decision’, he slurs while starring into his own jug. ‘Everything here tastes like piss.’

‘I‘m not sure whether that is the wines fault. It could just be that you have completely _killed your sense of taste_. Jaskier-’, she gives him an almost concerned look. ‘You _reek_ of alcohol. You know that you are supposed to drink it and not to take a bath in it.’

Shrugging he takes another sip before answering. ‘Times are _shit_. War is coming. And I have just made it my mission to drink my own body weight in alcohol before I run out of money.’

‘You look like you might have overachieved on that front. You don‘t look like you weigh more than a few carafes of wine by now.’ And okay that‘s just _rude_. ‘Where is this Witcher of yours? Doesn‘t he know to keep his puppy away from the alcohol?’ And again with the puppy analogies.

He stares at her darkly for a moment, before he downs the rest of his beverage. He considers leaving the table with some dramatic words of farewell but the chances of him tumbling to the floor within the first few steps is just too high. He will have to leave these kind of risky manoeuvres to another time.

‘What, this is the time that you choose to shut up?’, she asks without any malice. She doesn’t need to know that he just spoke more words than he has in ages because damn, he doesn‘t want her to _pity him_. He does quite a good job of pitying himself, he doesn‘t need her help for that.

‘Where is Geralt?’

‘I don‘t fucking know, okay?’, he bursts out, drawing several irritated gazes in their direction. ‘Your guess is as good as mine! Last time I saw him he was dramatically staring off into the distance because his beloved Witch had left him. He is probably standing arse deep in kikimora guts right now, that is what he used to like doing on a fine afternoon like this!’

‘It is barely noon.’ She leans forward in her chair and squints at him. ‘You haven‘t seen him since the dragon hunt – _what happened_?’

He avoids her gaze and focuses instead on a dark spot on the wooden floor, that might be either blood or vomit. ‘ _Nothing happened_. We had a cozy little talk about the things that we desired from life and destiny. There might have been a misunderstanding on my part and I decided to give him his peace before he starts sending evil djinns my way again.’

She sighed and her face darkens. ‘What did he say, bard?’

He cringes. ‘I‘m not sure that I can remember the exact words ...’

‘Julian Alfred Pankratz’, she interrupts very calmly – _too calmly_. ‘ _What – did – he – say_?’

And suddenly all the words just tumble out into the open because his pissed and sleep deprived brain just cannot be bothered to keep them all inside any longer. ‘If you need to know … He said that – that if life could give him one blessing … it would be to take _me_ off his hands … and _Yennefer_ , I know I‘ve been there wi-with him when all kinds of shit happened, I _did_ f-free the djinn by accident a-and I kind of talked him into coming to court with me in Cintra ...’ And now tears start rolling down his cheeks and he cannot be bothered to brush them away, because it is _all true_ and he is feeling _horrible_ about it. ‘And now his Child Surprise burned to a-ashes with the rest of the city and I can still smell it in the air and I couldn‘t even come and p-play for her birthday and I can‘t even remember how o-old she would have turned and this is proba-probab- I‘m sure this is somehow my fault as well be-because I didn‘t convince him to come and get her ...’

He would have probably been able to blubber on indefinitely but a sudden weight on one of his hands makes him pause. It is one of Yennefers hands. _On his hand_. He really doesn‘t want her pity. His first instinct is to pull his hands away but he cannot muster the strength and now … now the hands are blurring because more tears are welling up (and at least he won‘t cry himself to death because after several days of an exclusively liquid diet dehydration is not a likely cause of death – _alcohol poisoning on the other hand_ …).

‘That Witcher really is the biggest idiot that ever graced this continent, isn’t he?’, Yennefer exclaims passionately. He just stares at her with sad watery eyes and she grimaces. ‘That he was even able to send you away when you look at people like this!’

‘I don’t suppose we can just forget what just happened and go our separate ways again?’, he asks dejectedly after a short moment of silence, while staring into the swirling depth of his drink - oh no, he did empty that before he started to cry all over the table.

She hums before straightening up. ‘What are your thoughts on Wyzima?’

That throws him off a bit and he stares at her for a few moments before shrugging. ‘I mean … it’s an alright city … I guess. Doesn’t compare to Oxenfurt, though. Why?’

‘I have a small business there, that I need to get back to. You can come with me if you like.’

He cannot help his suspiciousness. ‘Why?’

She rolls her eyes and stands up, leaving her half empty jug wine behind (She probably has enough coin to spare and the wine really is disgusting). ‘Because, things get a bit boring there and I could use some company. Also, you seem to me like someone who could use a change of scenery for a while, just until you regain your footing.’ She sounds almost – _caring_.

‘There is nothing wrong with my footing’, he grumbles but there is almost no petulance left in his tone. He doesn’t want her pity but he is also in no condition to actively fight it back right now.

She snorts but her gaze stays soft. ‘Until you are sober, then. That should take you a week or two.’

And so he stumbles after her, out of the dirty tavern and onto the street. The burning smell is still there but it isn’t as strong as it has been before he entered the pub. He still covers his mouth and nose with the silk of his sleeve while Yennefer pulls him into an empty street behind the pub where she invokes a portal.

‘Are you alright?’ He nods meekly. ‘We are going to step through this portal now and if you puke all over my floor _you_ will be the one cleaning it afterwards!’, she explains with a stern expression before she pulls him right into the swirling magic.

On the other side of the portal - true to her words - he _does_ _vomit,_ but not before she shoves his head over a bucket. Luckily his stomach hasn’t been very full to begin with. Unluckily there goes the alcohol that he has just spent all his remaining money on. He grimaces because of the foul taste that fills his mouth, tentatively lifts his head to speak to Yennefer and promptly passes out before any words can pass his lips.

* * *

  
The following weeks are _interesting_. First of all it is good for Jaskier to have somebody who – _for whatever reason_ – really seems to care about him. And Yennefer actually takes good care of him. As promised she sobers him up, makes sure that he is eating enough and keeps him busy by assigning him small tasks around the shop whenever his thoughts threaten to slip into darker places.

‘I have the distinct feeling that you could do most of the cleaning within the blink of an eye’, he grumbled after she bullies him into sweeping her working space. ‘You know, just with the wave of a hand and some magic … stuff.’

‘Well aren’t you a clever puppy’, she responds with a cool smile but without looking up from the old book that she is currently studying. ‘Do you mind doing the kitchen next?’

And the truth is, he doesn’t mind. He is sleeping in a real bed for the first time in ages and he is eating free of charge and if that means that he would have to help around the house a bit here and there that is just fair. Especially since Yennefer is actually respecting his boundaries.

Not once has she forced him to leave the house when the smell of burning flesh is filling the air again, even though she has made it clear – with surprisingly gentle words – that it is not actually something that anyone else is smelling – not that he hasn't known that before. But no, she is astonishingly good at pushing him _just the right amount_ and once the weeks in recovery have rekindled his natural curiosity he becomes increasingly intend on finding out what happened in her past to make her so observant.

Sadly he hasn’t become anymore subtle. And so, whenever he tries to casually inquire after her past she just laughs and gives him something else to do.

‘Not now, Jaskier, could you fetch me some more mandrake leaves from upstairs?’

‘You did study all kinds of things in Oxenfurt, didn’t you? Do you have any idea what these runes could mean or know someone who could know? All my sources have come up empty handed.’

‘This is going to take ages and I am quite tired. Would you mind playing some music for me?’

And while he has grown increasingly irritated with her excuses this last question throws him off. Since arriving in Wyzima his lute has stayed in its case up in his room and while he has often looked at it longingly he has never found the energy to actually play anything. So he looks at her with a stricken expression.

‘I’m not sure that I _can_ ...’

‘You have played this instruments for how many decades in total? I’m pretty sure that at this point you cannot just forget how to play. You don’t actually have to play anything about the Witcher, you know?. You do know other songs, don’t you?’, and since he still looks unconvinced she adds, ‘Play something simple, something a student would learn. I’ve never had an ear for music anyway, I’m sure I won’t even noticed.’

He scoffs but stands up to get his instrument anyway. He is pretty sure that she has spent enough time around the rich and powerful to have developed a taste for good music. But he also suspects that calling her out on her lies would probably just result in one of her usual elusive counter questions so he lets it slide.

Getting back into music is both easier and more difficult than he would have expected. As predicted he can’t really unlearn the music that he has studied for so long and even after this extensive break his fingers fall easily back in place and it takes little to no conscious thought for them to dance along the strings to produce the tunes of old folk tunes that he has known for ages.

What he has underestimated is the effect that his break has had on the calluses on his finger tips and in the beginning he is barely able to play more than five or six songs before his fingers ache so badly that he needs to rest them for a few hours.

But once the initial hesitation is gone he quickly grows determined to build up his old strength which often results in him training his lute play until late at night while Yennefer sits nearby and works on whatever mysterious project she is currently involved with. It reminds him a lot of his time at school - but in a surprisingly positive way.

‘I used to play for Julis too, while she was working on all kind of potions at night’, he tells Yennefer one evening. She is supposed to research how to detect love spells for a suspicious _would-be_ mother-in-law but while a lot of authors have a lot to say about the composition of love potions and the likes, very few of them actually go into any detail about ways of _detecting_ or _breaking_ these kind of spells.

‘That was the witch that used you as an easy supplier for potion ingredients when you were a student, right?’ She grimaces. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be at school at nights?’

He laughs and changes the tune to something more cheerful. ‘I mean … _technically_ you are right. But I really cherished every moment that I was not spending within school walls. I don’t think that Julis and me were _friends_ – I was maybe fifteen years old and she was … she was a Witch so your guess is as good as mine – but I’d say we grew pretty close over time. I would sneak out into the city after classes and sometimes it would be too late to get back inside without somebody noticing. _Actually_ , I am probably lucky that she did let me stay overnight whenever that happened.’

Yennefer hums. ‘Was school easier than being at home?’

He snorts bitterly but keeps up the upbeat melody. ‘Not really. It was rather horrible. Stifling and restrictive. At least at home people had gotten used to me somewhat.’ He gives her a rueful grin. ‘They didn’t exactly accept me the way I was but they learned to pick their battles. _Yes_ , you can attend the sword lessons but please don’t cut up anymore expensive silk dresses, that sort of thing. And everyone just called me _Jaskier_ , because that was what my mother had always called me before she died. After starting school I think Julis was the only person who ever called me that.’

‘That is some sort of flower, isn’t it? _Jaskier_.’

He nods with an excited grin. ‘ _Buttercups_ , small yellow flowers. They grew all over the meadows around the estate. It always looked very pretty.’

She smirked. ‘ _Poisonous_ as well. And pretty irritating to the skin if not handled correctly. I must say, it is quite an appropriate nickname.’

‘You are always such a source of positivity, Yen’, he drawls at her with a scowl. ‘You just know how to win over other peoples affection.’

She laughs. ‘I am a Witch and not some excited puppy disguised as a bard. I don’t really need affection - it is much more effective to just make people fear you.’ With that she goes back to her books.

‘That explains _so much_ ’, Jaskier mutters. ‘But I’d just like to let you know that you’ve been doing a spectacularly bad job at that recently.’

‘Maybe you are just the exception that proves the rule.’

And this is probably as close as they will ever get to a truly heartfelt “ _thank you_ ”.

It takes a few more weeks of coaxing and threatening but as the summer is coming to an end Jaskier starts to play in taverns again. At first he is quite nervous about it but Yen does not accept his excuses and once he starts, the exhilaration of a captivated and enthusiastic audience is enough to keep him going.

He puts a lot of thoughts into the sets that he plays. He avoids songs about warfare and sticks to more cheerful pieces to keep peoples minds off the ever advancing Nilfgaardian front. He also decides to forego any songs that remind him too much of Geralt or Cintra. Maybe there will be a time when he’ll be able to play them without the dread constricting his chest but right now the wounds are still to fresh. Therefore his pool of possible songs is quite restricted but he is sure that he can make up for that with his new found enthusiasm.

Today has been a rather quite evening. He has done his best to share his good mood with his audience but news of the war and a turn in weather have made his job especially difficult. Therefore his purse is lighter than he would have hoped when he leaves the tavern to return to Yens shop. It is not to far of a way but it is raining pretty badly and he still hasn’t had the foresight to invest in _practical clothes_ instead of his usual silks so he curses and shields his lute as best as possible before stepping out into the rain.

The streets are mostly empty even though it is not even that late in the evening yet. Had it been any busier he would have probably overlooked the dark figures that lurk in one of the side streets. As it is he spots them almost immediately and a bad feeling spreads throughout his body.

With apprehension he hastens on and tries to keep as much distance as possible between himself and the suspicious men. Unlike his lute the sword still rests untouched in Yens guest room and he suddenly feels very vulnerable without it. All he has is a small dagger hidden in his boot and he can’t even reach for that now without drawing their attention. He catches a few scraps of conversation. ‘ _The others are waiting … clearly … next to the apothecary._ ’ After a few more steps down the street the figures start moving as well though against his expectations they don’t seem to be targeting lonely bards and their meager earnings tonight.

But his relief is short-lived. He knows the apothecarys shop. It is a rundown little store and he has exchanged a few flirtatious glances with Kamil, the owners son, before deciding that an affair with him would be to risky. Kamil is a beautiful young man with the most expressive green eyes and spectacular red hair. But his fathers apothecary – and that is the predicament – is also located right next to Yens business and he wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbourly peace. Which leads to the more pressing matter – while the dark figures don’t seem like they want to assault Jaskier, they are on their way to Yens shop and there are more of them waiting.

Before he reaches the corner to Yennefers street he ducks into one of the side streets and waits with baited breath as the men walk by. They wear long cloaks and hide their faces in the shadow of their hoods but their steps are heavy and accompanied by the clink of metal on metal. They are armed. And while he knows that the Witch could probably take down a small army with ease she does not expect an ambush or she would have mentioned it. He curses and slowly follows them to the street corner.

The sight makes his heart sink even further. There are a total of eight or nine figures positioned around the house. Maybe more in the back. But most notably there is a very nervous horse standing by the shop. A very _familiar horse_. Geralt is here. _Shit_.

He needs to come up with a plan and he needs to do so _quickly_ , which is easier said than done when anxiety is clawing at his mind and all he has is a knife … _right_ , the dagger. He draws it from its hiding place and inches a bit further around the corner to get a better view at the assailants – who are now charging through the front door and he can hear glass breaking so they are probably also entering through one of the back windows … _No time for a plan_.

He stumbles toward the shop and ducks low against the wall so that he won’t be seen through the window. The door is slightly ajar and he can hear shouting from the inside but no fighting … which is worrying because Geralt and Yen are the kind of people who _would be fighting_ in a situation like this.

He glances at Roach who nervously shakes her head but stays otherwise calm like the well-trained horse that she is. He clutches his dagger even tighter before he rises just high enough to peek through the window.

There definitely have been more people at the back of the shop. The little front room is downright _crowded_. The attackers are still hidden beneath hoods and cloaks but they have drawn their weapons. In the corner by the table there is Geralt and seeing him after their unhappy separation on the mountain top makes Jaskiers heart beat even faster. He looks pretty badly beaten up. Several cuts adorn his grim face and there is more blood on his armour and clothes. This is not his first run-in with armed attackers today. Yen is standing right beside him, one hand on his shoulder.

Now, he can understand that maybe Geralt is not fit enough to fight right now (even though he has seen him take down monsters with much worse injuries) but why isn’t Yennefer attacking? There must be something that he is missing, so he follows their furious gazes to one of the cloaked men who is standing by the door and is holding a knife … the angle is really awkward - but now he takes a step to the side and Jaskiers finally spots the small blond girl with a knife to her throat.

He wants to weep both in relief and despair. It has been some time since he last saw her but Princess Cirilla is _alive_. She hasn’t burned with the rest of Cintra. Not only that but she has found her way to Geralt. Not that that is doing her any good at the moment because the Witcher can’t do anything to help her while the attackers – probably spies of Nilfgaard – could slit her throat at any moment. She has a fierce look on her small face and her hands are clutching onto the attackers arm but she is no match to the strength of a grown man. Jaskier has to act fast.

He takes a last shaking breath before he tiptoes to the open door - he is now positioned almost directly behind the man that holds the princess - and bolts forward as quickly as possible. His hands are trembling but he still thrusts his dagger right into the armpit of the raised arm that holds the weapon to Cirillas throat. And thankfully her grasp on the attackers arm does not loosen so that she is able to pull the blade away from her throat and wind out of his grasp -

The Nilfgaardian whirls around with a hoarse cry, draws his sword with his other hand and now Jaskiers only weapon is gone so he has to duck and dodge several attacks by the furious man. He spins around his attacker in one fluent movement that he has once learned from Geralt and draws his last possible defense. With a resounding clang his lute (please don’t be broken, _please don’t be broken_ ) collides with the side of the spies head and he collapses to the ground.

Breathing heavily he dives for the discarded sword of his attacker while he tries to spot the princess. From the corner of his eye he sees that chaos has overtaken the corner in which he last saw both Witcher and Witch but princess Cirilla stands pressed to the wall and he positions himself in front of her – sword held high – to shield her as effectively as possible.

He parries another attack from the right and yanks his sword around, following his opponents momentum to throw him off balance but the man recovers too quickly and charges at them again, so he tightens his grip and prepares to twist around once there blades meet – hopefully disarming the attacker in the process -

‘ _To your left_!’

He hears the shrill warning just a moment too late and falters as he feels the blade sinking into his side with a sickening _squelch_ … only a blink of an eye before a fist crashes against his temple and the world turns black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this turned out a lot longer than I expected and I know it is a mean cliffhanger ... but also I just couldn't let it go on even longer. I am also aware that I could have split it into to chapters quite comfortably but I have a theme going on with the chapter titles and turning this into two chapter would have clashed with that. #priorities.


End file.
